A Diary for I, Don Quixote DALE WASSERMAN It’s late summer of 1959, and I am in Spain w riting a movie (whose title escapes me) when I read, in the International Herald Tribune, that I am busy preparing a screenplay based on Don Quixote. Further, the item explains, a certain actor has already been engaged to play the starring role. I’m amused. The item is non- sense, undoubtedly a ploy by some space-hungry press agent to get his client’s name in the papers. The truth is that I have never read Don Quixote. But I am aware that it has spawned at least four movies and a host of adaptations in the theatrical media. As I mentally riffle through the list I be- come aware that in addition to comm on parentage all these adap- tations have one other item in comm on: they failed. My curiosity is piqued—why, if their source is so seminal, do the derivative works produce so bleak a record? Spain is the appropriate place to investigate the puzzle. Daily I loaf in the Plaza de España reading the Putnam translation of Don Quixote with— potent coincidence— the twin statues of Don Qui- xote and Sancho Panza loom ing over my shoulder. I finish Volume Two, dazed but with the firm conviction that this literary monument could not and should not be dramatized. It is evident that Don Quixote is all things to all people, few of whom will agree on its inventory of meanings. But its author? 117 118 DALE WASSERMAN Cervantes Another matter. What sort of man was this Miguel de Cervantes who could pour a river of wit and wisdom, of invention and inspired folly into a magnum opus such as this? I feel less curious about the novel than I do about its author. In a search for Cervantes I cover miles of dusty roads and delve in many a dusty manuscript. Many weeks go into travels to the villages where Cervantes lived and worked, place-names made famous by his one-time presence. To Argamasilla, Tomelloso, the Cave of Montesinos. To Alcázar, and to Esquivias where I sit at the desk where Cervantes wrote and viewed La Mancha through his window. To Toboso, home of the legendary Lady Dulcinea, and to Campo de Criptana where there are windmills. Any Hispanic scholar could recite the itinerary, but I am not a scholar and I am seeking something more elusive…the aura of the m an him self, a clue to the special vitality of his work. I find it—and suddenly my interest is trebled. Cervantes, I learn, was first and foremost a man of the theater: a playwright, actor, and director, forced, through frustration of his primary ambition, to ways of making a living “which are not on the map.” Now a light switches on, illuminating the reason for m y interest. I sense an affinity, not with the man who, in his desperate final years wrote Don Quixote, but with the playwright of more than forty plays, with the man who traveled the dusty roads of Spain with a troupe of scruffy actors, performing for illusory profit. My life, too, is of the theater, similarly obsessive and harrowed by like difficulties. Fundamentally, I am dealing with a colleague. Someone whom, through common experience, I recognize. I decide that if there is a play lurking in the vicinity it will not be an adapta- tion of Don Quixote but a w ork devoted to its author. As for the novel Don Quixote a single line leaps out at me, of such significance that I find it a clue as to how such a work may be accomplished. It occurs in an encounter between Quixote and the farmer Pedro Alonso to whom Quixote spins out a fantastic tale of imprisonment by a potentate in his castle. The farmer is aston- ished, for he has been Quixote’s lifelong neighbor. He says, “Can- not you see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narváez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but merely Pedro Alonso, your neighbor? And you are neither Baldwin nor Abindarráez, but a respectable gentleman by 21.2 (2001) A Diary for I, Don Quixote 119 the name of Alonso Quijana?” Don Quixote replies, “I know who I am, and who I may be if I choose.” This is not the statement of a madman, nor of one with vacant rooms in his head. To a man of the theater it is instantly recogniz- able as the statement of an actor. Don Quixote has chosen a role and is playing it with all the histrionic conviction he can muster. Nor is this the only clue to his conscious role-playing. Again and again he speaks of his love of the theater. “I love plays and have always been an admirer of the drama,” he says. And again: “nothing tells us better what we are or ought to be than com edians and comedy.” Cervantes is a practiced man of the theater. His creation, Don Quixote, is an actor, aware of the role he is playing. With these discoveries I have all I can gain from research in Spain. By late autumn of 1958 I am back in New York, now to undertake the really difficult task— thinking. In my experience concepts grow by accretion, not by flashes of inspiration. But this was an exception; I can remember the precise moment when, after mentally chewing on the problem for some weeks, the play’s design flashes into view and I feel that rare frisson which signals, “Got it!” Within an hour at the typewriter I have stated it in one page and even given it a title: Man of La Mancha. Here is a replica of that page: Miguel de Cervantes, aging and a lifetime failure, is thrown into prison for levying against a church in his job of gathering supplies for the Grand Armada. His fellow prisoners, dregs of the underworld, convene a kangaroo court for the purpose of seizing all of Cervantes’ possessions. These possessions include a manu- script which we will later surmise to be the story of a certain eccentric who calls himself Don Quixote. Cervantes cleverly persuades the “court” to allow him to present a defense in the form of an entertainment. Given permis- sion, he assumes the character of his eccentric knight and involves the other prisoners in playing roles in the seemingly ridiculous story. There are interludes of return to reality when the presence of the Inquisition, before which Cervantes will be tried in reality, makes its ominous presence known. 120 DALE WASSERMAN Cervantes As the entertainment proceeds we will detect the character of Cervantes blending with that of his creation until we come to understand that the two are spiritually the same person. In the process the prisoners are entertained, then involved and finally touched by emotions long since chilled, in particular one upper- level criminal called “The Duke.” The story of Don Q uixote is interwoven with the life of Cervantes; actually, we don’t know how either one will end except that each will illuminate the other. I take my single page to David Susskind, the bravest television producer I know. He takes a full two minutes to ponder it, points out the difficulties (extreme) of selling such a play to the public, then asks what I would need to write it. I explain: an advance, so I can back off to some place where there’s nothing in my life but writing this play. Susskind says, “You’ve got it.” A contract dated October 19, 1958, is issued together with a check. In February of the year 1959 I’m on my way to Switzerland, there to isolate m yself in a mountainside cabin overlooking Lake M aggiore, in order to wrestle with a play which I really don’t know how to write. Early in the process I encounter a serious lacuna in my concept. There is no character through whom the Quixotic ideal will flower finally, who will experience catharsis through dedication to the Quest… And so is born the character of Aldonza, “a savage alley cat, veteran if not always victor of many back-fence tussles,” whom Quixote will identify as his Lady Dulcinea. In the novel Don Quixote there exists the name but no such character. My Aldonza will become the pivot upon which the entire play turns, the cata- lyst which m akes it “work.” More than ever I come to realize how lonely is the occupation of writing. Daily I stumble along, working from instinct rather than plan, surprised again and again by what emerges from the type- writer. I am unaware of deepest feelings until they confront me on paper. On the day I write, “to dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, and never to stop dreaming or fighting…” I stop, disturbed by such fancy philosophy. I strike it out. Put it back. Twice. But my real surprise comes with the play’s climax. I hadn’t planned it as it appears on the paper. I have something much more 21.2 (2001) A Diary for I, Don Quixote 121 sophisticated in mind. But it writes itself as the death of Quixote and his transfiguration through his one convert, Aldonza. Then one day, three months after commencement, the script is finished. No, not finished—what play ever is “finished?”—but there’s a complete draft, and those loveliest words in th e language, The End, have been written.